


How Not To Be A Virgin Sacrifice

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: First Love, First Time, Gay Sex, M/M, POV First Person, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: Fantasy AU. My name is Arthur Kirkland. I live in a remote village blessed by a benevolent god. He protects us, and he provides for us, and the only thing he asks for in return is one little virgin sacrifice. It's a small price to pay for the good lives we all live. Unless you happen to be a virgin, of course. Like me.





	How Not To Be A Virgin Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive.
> 
> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.  
> ALWAYS practice safe sex.
> 
> CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
> 
> ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland  
> PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt  
> SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo  
> FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi  
> ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

My name is Arthur Kirkland. The village I live in is very remote. It's nestled deep in the mountains. There is only one road in and out, a narrow footpath that winds through the forest. A poet once called my village _The Hidden Valley_. It's a beautiful, quiet place secluded from the outside world; protected from war and famine and illness and poverty. The villagers are happy to pretend the outside world is the myth instead of acknowledging the reality—that _we_ are the myth. The villagers in the valley live simple but comfortable lives blessed with longevity. We have everything we could want and nothing we do not need. The gods smile upon my village. Or, at least one of them does. One of the plethora of nature gods, whose name is too long and complex for mortal tongues, is the guardian of my village. He protects us, and he provides for us, and the only thing he asks for in return is a virgin sacrifice.

                It's a rather small price to pay for the good lives we live, everyone agrees. Unless you are between the ages of fourteen and sixteen (which is the legal age of marriage in my village), there is nothing to fear.

                I have never been afraid before today.

                Today is my fourteenth birthday.

* * *

I am the last of my friends to turn fourteen-years-old. As of today, I complete the crop of newly matured sacrifices available to our benevolent god. It's only a coincidence that my birthday happens to be on the day of the choosing, but to me it feels like fate.

                I awoke this morning trembling and I'm still trembling at midday. The choosing will happen at the stroke of midnight. It will happen quietly and privately. The god will spirit away one of the villagers and no one will be any the wiser until morning. I have exactly twelve hours to conceive of a way to save myself. Otherwise, it will be me. I can't explain how I know this, but I do.

                "They say the god prefers green-eyed boys," says Gilbert. He throws a grape into the air and catches it in his mouth. "Green eyes are rare." This is ironic coming from red-eyed Gilbert. If the god truly does prefer rare looks, then Gilbert ought to be the most worried. The old village women call him _changeling_ because he looks more fey than boy. "I've heard tales," he says, unperturbed, catching another ripe purple grape, "about boys who hack off their pretty hair or dirty their skin or starve themselves to look skinny and ill, all to make themselves look unappealing to the god, but nobody can change their eyes. Not unless they cut them out!" he yells, moving suddenly.

                It frightens Antonio, who's been hanging on Gilbert's every word. His big green eyes are wide in horror.

                "Do you think it will be me?" he asks fretfully.

                Gilbert nods sagely. "Yes, probably. You, or Art," he replies.

                I don't know why we're even listening to Gilbert. He's only the eldest by a few precious months, and he's not even the most studious of us. He likes to tell stories, boasting lies, but we're rapt. We're sitting in the vineyard beneath the sun, surrounded by coiling vines as green as mine and Antonio's eyes, huddled around Gilbert as if proximity to his loud self-confidence will protect us. Gilbert likes this game. He likes being the centre of our attention. He looks at us soberly, glancing from face-to-face, and shakes his silvery head, like we're doomed men sentenced to death. (Truth be told, Gilbert is kind of a dick.)

                Later, I'm walking home with Francis—my next-door neighbour—and I'm panicking inside. I try to hide it for as long as I can, because the thought of Francis' ridicule is worse than Gilbert's taunting, but we haven't reached the village yet when I suddenly stop and blurt:

                "It's going to be me!"

                Francis sighs. "Don't pay attention to Gil, he's only trying to scare you. The god has taken boys of every shape and size and colour without showing a preference for any. The only consistency is that they're always, _always_ virgins."

                Francis' tone is soothing and logical. Like Gilbert, he's unafraid of being chosen, even though he's the most beautiful boy in the village. But unlike Gilbert, he truly has nothing to fear, because he's not a virgin.

                "It's got nothing to do with Gilbert," I argue. Francis cocks his head and blinks his blue eyes at me. His lashes are very long. "Francis," I lower my voice, despite the emptiness of the forest, "I _know_ it's going to be me. I can feel it. When I woke up this morning, I just... I just..."

                When I was a small-er boy, I was often laughed at by my fellows for proclaiming to see and hear things that weren't there, and I was scolded by the adults for telling lies. Eventually, I stopped telling others what my intuition told me, but that doesn't mean I stopped feeling it. It's a part of me as much as my head and heart and hands, and it's never led me astray before. It's never proven to be wrong. I always trust what it tells me, and right now it's telling me that the god will choose me as his sacrifice.

                " _Francis_ ," I say, ashamed as tears flood my eyes, "I don't want to die."

                Francis takes my hand. "Come with me," he says. He doesn't wait before pulling me off the footpath into the forest.

                He leads me to the old abandoned watchtower we discovered long ago. It's in the deepest, darkest part of the forest, a part we're not supposed to visit. He pushes open the creaking wooden door and ushers me into the circular chamber. It's dark. The only light filters in through the arrow-loops near the top, colouring the hay-covered dirt floor golden in places. I've never been afraid of the watchtower, but I flinch when Francis pulls the door closed behind him, closing us both inside. I turn to ask him what he's planning, but I never get the chance.

                He kisses me.

                It's the first kiss he and I have ever shared. It's the first kiss I've ever shared with anyone, but not his. He's done this before. I can tell by the way his lips brush against mine, whispering practice.

                I'm stunned speechless for a moment. Then I gasp and shove him away.

                " _What are you doing_?" I demand, affronted by his unexpected advance.

                Francis, however, doesn't look the least bit ashamed. In fact, he looks serious.

                "The god only takes virgins, right?" he asks rhetorically, taking a step toward me. (I hastily take a step back.) He looks at me very deliberately, and says: "There's a cure for that."

                I gape at him, not sure if I ought to feel more shocked or insulted. "It-It—It's not a disease!"

                "It might as well be if it's going to get you killed, Arthur!" he shouts. His blue eyes suddenly look desperate and he quickly turns them away. "I don't want to lose you," he says, very quietly.

                I feel dizzy. I stare at Francis in disbelief, waiting, but he's not playing; he's not joking. There's no laughter in his blue eyes, only fear and sadness and something else I don't recognize—tenderness, maybe. When he finally lifts his head and looks at me, my heart skips a beat.

                "I-I—I don't want to lose me, either," I ineloquently reply.

                This time when he steps toward me, I don't retreat. I let him come to me and I let him take my hand in his. I let him get really close, nearly chest-to-chest. My heart is pounding; I wonder if he can feel it.

                "Arthur, _chéri_ ," he says, brushing a lock of wheat-blonde hair off my forehead. His eyes are so blue, and his lashes are so long, and his touch is so gentle as he caresses my cheek. "Let me save you."

                I pretend to consider it, but my heart has already decided.

                "Okay," I agree.

* * *

Kissing him feels weird, at first. Francis has been my friend and next-door neighbour for a long time. I've known him all my life, but I've never known him like this. This is new. This is weird. Even though I've known him all my life, I feel suddenly shy. I'm clumsy at kissing—I've never done it before. I press my lips firmly to his, but I don't do much else. I let him lead, but it annoys him. "Move your lips," he says, his voice muffled. I can taste his minty breath in my mouth.

                "I can't," I say, pulling back. I give him a look. "This is weird."

                "Why?"

                "Because it's you," I reply, thinking it obvious.

                But Francis doesn't think it's obvious. He cocks his hip and his shoulders slant and he looks indignant for a minute, and it makes me wonder what he's thinking in his curly, crafty head. Then he leans toward me again, cupping the back of my head in guidance. "Then close your eyes," he suggests.

                I do, and it's better. It's better if I'm not looking at my life-long friend as he becomes my first lover. Francis uses his hands to distract me from the kisses. He strokes me—my cheek, my head, my neck—which is weird, like he's trying to soothe a timid beast, but it's good-weird and it works. I can feel myself yielding to him as he slips his tongue between my lips. It's hot and slick and chases my tongue around the inside of my mouth. I don't know what it's called or where he learnt to do it, but it feels _weirdly_ good. As we break for breath, I feel myself leaning into his body. It's a very nice body, not too big or small. It's golden and dusted with a fine covering of blonde hair. It's a couple of inches taller than me, and a couple of pounds heavier, and it has a small white scar on the back of the knee and a lily-shaped birthmark low on the hip. It's agile and a lot faster than it is strong. And it's always warm. I know these things because I know him. I've seen him—all of him—countless times. (He's not shy.) But today will be the first time in a long time that he sees all of me.

                "Wait, wait—stop," I say, grabbing his exploratory hand. It's resting on my bare hip, about to creep up under my shirt.

                "It's okay," he purrs, kissing my neck. "It'll feel good—"

                " _No_."

                I spook and shove him.

                Taken by surprise, he stumbles back. Then he stares at me in disbelief, a little upset, but mostly concerned as he awaits an explanation.

                "I'm sorry," I say honestly, avoiding eye-contact. "I just—I can't. I can't have you touching me, it's too weird."

                Francis regards me pitifully, a soft look in his eyes. "Why?" he asks.

                I shouldn't have to tell him why. He should know why. "Because it's _you_!" I yell, rose-red in embarrassment.

                "Yes, it's me," he acknowledges. He rolls his shoulders, shrugging cavalierly. "Better me than some stranger, don't you think? I'm your best-friend, Arthur. I love you," he says unabashedly, "and I trust you. Don't you trust me?"

                His voice is as smooth as golden honey, and his words are earnest. My voice catches in my throat and I can't speak, so I merely nod.

                "Then doesn't that make it not weird?" he asks simply.

                _Yes_! says my heart without a doubt. But the rest of me is much less certain. I look at my _best-friend_ and I see the boy I've known for fourteen years; the boy who's seen me at my best and worst; the boy who's been the epicentre of the happiest, saddest, angriest, and most humiliating moments of my life. We've been enemies almost as often as we've been friends, and I suddenly realize what it is I'm so afraid of. I can't do this with him because I can't bear the thought that this might change our relationship somehow for the worse, making us permanent enemies; or at the very least, no longer best-friends. I've seen it happen to villagers before and it's ugly. I don't want that to be us. The truth is, I love him, too. And I'm more afraid of losing him than I am of losing myself as a sacrifice.

                Apprehensive, I force myself to look at him— _really_ look at him. He's very patient. And he's _very_ beautiful.

                "...are you going to laugh at me?" I mumble.

                His reply is stark and immediate. "No, of course not," he says. "I promise."

                My fingers shake a little as I start to undress myself, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. I can feel his eyes on me, following the decline of my torso as the shirt falls open, revealing my pale, freckled skin underneath. I force myself to keep going, to push the sleeves off my shoulders and let the shirt fall to the floor. I feel very exposed, but I've started now and if I stop I might lose my nerve. I hook my thumbs beneath the waist of my trousers and hesitate only for a second before I pull them down, relieving myself of the only garb I had. There's nothing now to shield me from scrutiny. Blushing from cheeks to naval, I step out of my clothes and stand in a patch of golden sunlight, letting it kiss the goose-bumps on my skin as I await Francis' opinion.

                He waits. And waits. It makes me so nervous, I press my knees together and wrap my arms self-consciously around my middle.

                "You promised you wouldn't laugh!" I say when his lips curl.

                "I'm not." His smile grows, his eyes sparkle.

                "You're smiling!"

                "I'm _smiling_ ," he says slowly, letting his indulgent gaze linger before meeting mine, "because I didn't realize how beautiful you are, Arthur. All of you. I've wanted to see you like this for a long time."

                I swallow. I can feel myself blushing redder. My skin feels so hot. "You shouldn't say things like that," I say.

                He cocks his head, his angelic curls tumbling around his angular face. "Why not? We _are_ about to be lovers."

                "Yes, but... when you say things like that, it makes me want to believe you."

                "Please do, _chéri_ , it's the truth."

                My knees go weak. Why does looking at him make me dizzy? Then he starts to undress, too, and I'm flooded with feelings I've only ever felt briefly before. I've seen Francis naked dozens of times, just as I've seen Gilbert and Antonio, but this sensation is entirely new. I feel it in parts of my body that I've been too shy to explore until now. I'm still too shy, but Francis is not. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin than I am, and his self-confidence is oddly reassuring. He kicks his clothes aside and smiles seductively at me, which makes me equal parts happy and nervous. Then my eyes land deliberately on his hanging cock and I take a step back.

                "Uh, actually..." I say, groping for my clothes, "I've changed my mind."

                " _What_?" Francis looks shocked. Perhaps he had expected a different reaction to his nudity. In retaliation, he snatches up my clothes before I can reach them and tosses them aside, behind him. "Why not? What's wrong?"

                "I-I-I—" I can't say it. It's too embarrassing.

                "Arthur, please tell me. I'll fix whatever it is."

                I recoil from him, but when his long-fingered hands land on me his touch is safe and gentle and it promises no judgement. His blue eyes seem to say: _Trust me_.

                "I-I-I—I don't think you can fix it," I say sheepishly, glancing below his waist. "I-I-I—I don't think it's going to fit. It looks bigger than usual."

                "What? No, it's the same size it always is—which is perfectly proportionate to my body, thank-you," he adds, in case there was doubt. "You're just nervous, _chéri_. Come here." He puts his arms around me, laying his hands flat on the small of my back. "Just relax. I'm not going to hurt you," he says, kissing me. It's nice, but I'm acutely aware of our naked bodies pressed close together. He starts grinding his hips against mine and when our cocks touch, I flinch. "It's okay," he whispers as he coaxes me slowly down into the hay. It's soft and tickles me. My exposed skin is so sensitive that everything feels magnified. It's not unpleasant right now. In fact, these external touches make me shiver in giddy anticipation, but it's not enough to quell my nerves. I'm so afraid that it'll hurt when he penetrates me. I don't want to feel pain magnified like this.

                (I wonder if the god would accept what we've already done as impure? Francis' skillful kisses and the feast of his nudity have already provoked carnal thoughts in me that _must_ have sullied my soul.)

                " _Gah_ —!

                "Oh, uh, okay... wait, just wait for a second... Okay, I just... just let me..." I'm babbling to distract myself from his plummeting hand. It slides teasingly down my torso, over the slope of my flat stomach and curls into a cup. "Wait, _Fran_ —!" My plea dies on a gasp that turns into a high-pitched yip, because he's grabbed my cock and is squeezing it, pumping it, like he's trying to milk it, working his hand up-and-down the length in a way that makes me squirm.

                "F-Fran-Francis, wait... please, I-I-I— _uh_ , _ah-hah_ , _oh—_ N-no, n- _0-oh_...  stop it... please, Fran, please don't—please, don't—

                " _Don't stop._ "

                I close my eyes in surrender and the last thing I see is his triumphant grin. I want to yell at him, but when my lips part it's to whine and gasp and no coherent words come out. My body feels weak as Francis eases me down onto my back. I can feel myself getting sweaty and wet and stiff. The knot of tension budding in my pampered cock is very uncomfortable, but if he stops his ministrations now I think I might cry. I don't even hear his whispered reassurances as he strokes me, because his hand is magical. At least, it is until he spits into his slicked palm and reaches under me.

                " _Ach_! _What the hell are you doing_?" I gasp, wriggling. His slimy fingers prod at my backside, awaiting entry. "I don't want your spit inside me! Gross!"

                Francis sighs demurely and shakes his head. "Oh, Arthur," he chuckles, as if this is funny. (I knew he'd laugh at me! I _knew_ it!) "I hate to tell you this, _chéri_ , but if you've got a problem with my saliva inside you, then you're in for a big surprise later. Now, relax," he orders, crawling between my spread legs. His hand gropes my backside before his index-finger sneaks in.

                "Wait! Fran—?"

                He looks at me.

                I swallow my trepidation. "Go slow, okay?"

                He nods.

                It's weird. Oh, gods—it's so weird. His index-finger delves into me and begins poking around at the fleshy walls of my insides. It's deep, from fingertip to knuckle. His knuckles prod at my backside, kneading my skin. Then he slips his middle-finger in, too, and starts scissoring them both. He's stretching me, preparing me for his cock's girth, I know that, but it hurts. His left hand continues to rub up-and-down my cock, but the intrusive scissoring of his right hand is hard to ignore. His head is bowed and his brow is pinched in concentration, as if he's struggling to remember the guidelines from a manual. When I suddenly yelp, he flinches.

                " _Ouch_!"

                "What is it? What's wrong?" he says in concern.

                " _Get out_ , _get out of me_!" I order, reaching down to yank on his wrist. I use him as leverage to pull myself into a sitting position and examine his long, wet fingers. "Trim your nails before you do that!" I say, angry about the flecks of blood caked under his fingernails.

                "Oh." He pales a little. "Oh, sorry."

                His apology is hoarse and his eyes stare widely in horror at the blood. It's a novice enough reaction for me to reconsider his prior declaration.

                " _Oh_?" I repeat suspiciously. "Francis, you have... done this before, right?"

                "Yes," he blurts. It's too fast and too anxious to be true. "I mean, _technically_ yes. I've practiced it—"

                "Wait," I say in disbelief, inching away from him. It's a struggle; my cock is still uncomfortably stiff. "You've had sex before, right?"

                "Uh, well... not technically, but—"

                "What the bloody-hell do you mean _not technically_? I thought you knew what you were doing!" I accuse him, feeling flustered and not a little betrayed. "You told us you weren't a virgin!"

                He breaks. "I lied, okay? I didn't want anyone to think I might be chosen as a sacrifice!" he shouts, wide-eyed and blushing.

                It's then I realize how scared he is, too. I can see it. My fear is reflected in his eyes. He purses his lips and sits back on his knees, spread to accommodate his cock's girth, and he looks at me beseechingly.

                "Please, Arthur," he says. (Are those tears I see?) "I don't want to die.

                "And I don't want you to die either," he adds in the proceeding silence. He shifts closer and takes my hands. He's always been physically affectionate with me—just me—but it's not playfulness in his touch now. It's desperation. "I really do love you," he admits, squeezing my hands. "I couldn't bear it if tonight proves the end for one of us, so let's save each other, okay? Come on, Arthur. I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. I won't do it again," he babbles, losing his self-confidence with every panicked word. "I'll go nice and slow, I promise. You can tell me if you don't like it and I'll stop, I promise," he repeats earnestly, squeezing my hands. " _Please_?"

                I want to say no. I want to deny the feelings bubbling inside of me like a witch's brew, but I can't. I can't deny my friend when he's looking at me like this. This naked vulnerability is something I've never seen in him before, and it makes me feel tender in reply, like maybe _I_ need to protect _him_.

                "Okay," I relent, sighing deeply. "But only if you stop lying to me," I add sternly. "If you lie to me again, I'll... I'll... I'll find someone else to take my virginity," I threaten emptily. "Maybe Antonio, he's scared, too."

                "No, no, no," Francis panics. "I'm here. I'm here for you, _chéri_." He kisses my hand in proof. "I'll be good to you, I promise."

* * *

Francis urges me down. I lay on my back with my legs spread, feeling like an animal displaying itself to attract a mate. Francis crawls between my legs and I instinctively press my skinny thighs to his sides. He slides his hands up my legs, from knobbly knees to narrow hips, then leans down over me and captures my lips chastely. It's soft and his eyes are open, focused on me. He's not trying to show-off, now. He's kissing me to prove a point, that his intentions are honest. He grinds his wider hips against mine, rubbing our slick erections together. The fleshy skin-to-skin friction makes me mewl in want. It's both agonizing and arousing. The scent of Francis' body—sweat and musky semen—tickles my nose and makes me wrap my arms around his neck, something primal and instinctive inside of me drawn to that promising scent. I hold him really close and inhale the pale scent of his perfumed curls, so soft. I nose his neck, then shyly plant an experimental kiss on it. Once, twice. My brain is foggy with arousal, which I blame for my sudden desire to taste his skin. It's not freckled, like mine; it's firm and smooth and tanned and perfect. I lick the base of his neck as I suck the tender skin. (Absently, I know that my lips are sucking in rhythm with his rolling hips.) I get over-zealous and bite him, and the noise he makes is almost enough to finish me. It's a guttural groan pulled unexpectedly from the back of his throat. I like it so much that I want to hear it again. I start to drag my hand slowly down his torso, but stop when I accidentally graze his hardened nipple. It makes him shudder and groan, so I linger. I palm his pectoral and press my thumb firmly down on his nipple before releasing it, massaging the skin, and this time he whines and bites his lip.

                " _Arthur_ ," he gasps, resting his forehead on my shoulder. The rest of his body is arched and tense, corded like a braided-rope. He kisses my shoulder. I can feel his wet breath. He says: "I can't wait any longer. I'm going to do it now, okay?"

                My heart pounds in reply, but I'm ready. I think.

                "O-okay," I say, draping my arms over his shoulders. I need something to clench, so I grab fistfuls of his long ash-blonde hair. I feel his weight lessen as he lifts his hips and reach down to guide his cock into me. I feel its weeping head lick my throbbing entrance, prodding gently, slowly. I can feel his warm knuckles bumping my backside clumsily as he searches for the best angle to enter from; as he urges me open with his fingers; then as he removes his fingers and squeezes his adolescent cock inch-by-inch inside. I'm glad I can't see what he's doing. It feels weird enough. His cock is as stiff as fibreboard and swollen with seed and my body resists the intrusion. I start to cry and dig my fingers into his tense shoulder-blades, pulling on his hair. " _F-Fran_..." I whimper. My heart is palpitating and my whole body is trembling. " _S-Stop_."

                He stops, half-submerged in me.

                I'm starting to doubt what we're doing—rather, _how_ we're doing it. I'm thinking that maybe this isn't the best position for us. Maybe I should be on my hands-and-knees, my backside exposed like an animal, but his voice quiets my panic.

                "It's okay," he whispers, cupping the back of my head. He kisses my temple. "It's okay, _chéri_. We're almost there."

                " _Go slow_ ," I request.

                "Yes," he promises.

                I can't see it, but I can feel it and imagine what it must look like: the long, hard proof of his proud manhood pushing slowly but steadily into my defenceless body; the walls of my insides stretching to accommodate the foreign appendage's girth, it's forceful penetration.

                "Wait—stop," I beg. I shift a fraction, then permit him to continue. "Okay, go ahead. Just a bit—!"

                "Okay?"

                "Yes." I shift again and spread my legs a little wider, sinking down against him, lifting my hips. I can feel him moving inside of me. It's so weird, but it sends an excited shiver down my spine. "Okay, go ahead.

                "Go ahead," I repeat impatiently. (Is that squeaky sound _my_ voice?)

                He chuckles. "That's it." His voice is soft in breathlessness. "That's all of it. That's me."

                I swallow, struck by the simplicity of his words. This is it. I've got my best-friend inside of me. We're lovers, now. It's a bit dizzying—or maybe that's the mix of pain and pleasure I'm feeling.

                "I'm going to start moving, okay?"

                I hug him tighter. "Okay."

                He pulls back—out—a bit and the pressure momentarily lessens, then doubles as he slides back in. I make a noise very much like, " _Ugh_!" as my hips involuntarily buck. He does it again and again and again, pulling out a little further and then sinking in deeper each time. It's slow to start, but as he finds a jolting rhythm it gets faster. Soon, I'm thrusting just as fervently as he is—though, less intentionally—my backside rocking along in the hay, burrowing down until we've created a divot. I can feel my bare skin brushing along the dirt floor, but it's a distant acknowledgement. Francis' clumsy thrusts are at the forefront of my mind, making me half-mad with sensation.

                " _Ah—_! _O-oh_ , _uh—nn_ , _a-hah—a-ah_! _F-France—F-Fran—F-F-F—uck_!"

                My pride tells me to try to keep my mouth shut, but in the heat of the moment I cry-out in sweet agony, urging him on with gasps and moans; clawing at his back, pulling his hair; bucking my hips to increase the pressure of every fervent thrust.

                " _Please—please—please_ —!" I beg.

                My sober self would be mortified that I was begging Francis Bonnefoi for _anything_ , but my lust-drunk self is so desperate for release I'll say anything, do anything, to achieve climax. Francis' actions have had a profound impact on my cock—literally—and I feel like I'm going to burst any second. His right hand never lets go of my cock as the rest of him moves back-and-forth. It's not really pumping anymore, too distracted, but it doesn't really matter. I've already bypassed my limit. In proof, my cock releases and I ejaculate milky semen all over Francis' lower-body. I'm a little embarrassed that I climaxed first, but he's close behind me. His grunt is half-strangled as he gives one final thrust and then I can feel his hot, sticky seed release inside of me. I'm still holding him, my mouth forming a silent O in shock. A single tear rolls down my face as I gasp for breath. Francis wobbles and collapses on top of me.

                It's been approximately six minutes.

* * *

I don't know how long we lie there for, unmoving. My body is still trembling, but now I'm numb to it. I'm unaware of everything but Francis' hot, sweaty, sticky figure draped over me. He tilts his head and looks up at me, and when he does his eyes are bluer than I've ever seen them, his cheeks are flushed, his lips are swollen, and he's never looked so beautiful. Absently, I wonder if I look the same. (Secretly, I hope I do.)

                "Arthur," he says sleepily. The change in him is unbelievable, eager and lively only minutes ago, now sluggish in fatigue. He grins lopsidedly. "You're not a virgin anymore."

                I laugh giddily and pet his damp curls. "Neither are you."

                Eventually, we force ourselves to get up and get dressed. Francis grabs a handful of hay to wipe himself off, then does me, and I laugh aloud because it tickles and I still feel drunk. The sweat on my skin has cooled and I shiver as I pull on my trousers. As I'm stepping back into them, my legs buckle and I lose my balance, falling weakly against Francis.

                "Are you okay?" he asks kindly.

                My legs feel like gelatin and my backside aches and it hurts to move let alone walk, but I say: "Yes," and bite my tongue. Francis has already seen me shudder and heard me beg. I refuse to sacrifice another shred of my dignity to him— _because_ of him.

                In proof, I set out from the watchtower. Francis lets me set the pace, which is slow but consistent. We don't talk, but he takes my hand and holds it, threading his fingers through mine. I let him. It feels nice holding him, even if it's just a small part. As we walk, I wonder how what we've just done will affect us. What will our families and friends think if they discover the truth? And what will I do if they don't? Is this a secret for Francis and I to share forevermore but never speak of? Are we to maintain our friendship as if nothing has changed? Or, does tonight mark the beginning of something new? As we walk, I brace myself for fear and guilt and worry to swarm me, but we've nearly reached the village now and still those negative feelings have stayed at bay. It's then that I realize how content I feel, peaceful in a way that I've never been before. I wonder briefly if it's maturity that accompanies the loss of one's innocence, but it's a fleeting thought because, right now, I don't care. Right now, I'm happy to simply feel safe and satisfied and—I blush, casting a glance at Francis, _my lover_ —loved for the very first time.

                _The first time_ , I consider privately, _but hopefully not the last_.

                Before we pass beneath the village gate, Francis and I simultaneously stop. He looks at me, and I look at him, and we're both smiling, an intimate secret passing between us. Then, in sync, we return to the village. We both left it this morning as boys, but we're returning to it changed. Not quite men, but no longer children. We're lost somewhere in the middle, now, but at least we're lost together. And I'm happy. Because there's no one else I would rather navigate this new world with, however clumsily, than my best-friend, Francis Bonnefoi.

                On the cobblestone path between our identical timber houses, Francis kisses me goodnight and says he'll see me in the morning. It's a simple farewell, but I smile because it's true. Unlike all the other fourteen-year-old villiagers, I'll sleep soundly tonight, secure in the fact that I won't be—can't be—chosen, because I no longer qualify as a suitable sacrifice for the god. And neither does Francis.

                "Thank-you," I whisper, my teasing tone lowered for privacy, "for saving my life."

                He brushes a lock of wheat-blonde hair off my forehead and softly caresses my cheek. "Thank-you for saving mine."

                Then we both slip into our opposite houses, silent as specters. We may not know what the fates have in store for us, but—tonight, at least—we're no longer afraid.

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

You're still here!" Antonio cheers, leaping at me. I stumble back as he crashes into me, buckling beneath his weight. "I thought for sure that if it wasn't me, it would be you!" he says, studying my face, my green eyes.

                "I'm still here," I confirm, pushing on his chest. I won't say it aloud, but I'm glad it wasn't Antonio or Gilbert who were chosen either. (I'll admit to worrying a wee bit for Antonio's sake, but even I can't fathom why the god—or anyone—would want Gilbert.) The fey-like boy stands a couple of paces away, scrutinizing me through narrowed red eyes. I try to look nonchalant, but when Francis' lazy voice calls-out to us, I can feel myself blush in reply.

                " _Franny_!" Antonio hollers. He abandons me and throws himself into Francis' arms, hugging him in relief. (I wonder if Gilbert received the same salutation this morning?) "I'm so glad you weren't chosen to die! I wasn't either!" he says needlessly.

                Francis laughs. "Toni, _chéri_ , we've been over this. I can't be the god's sacrifice, not ever. I'm not pure enough for his purpose."

                Antonio cocks his dark head and blinks, but it's Gilbert who speaks.

                "Not pure, huh? Sure. And what's your excuse?" he says, boring his eyes suspiciously into mine.

                I want to sound as suave and sophisticated as Francis, but my cheeks blush rose-red and I trip on my tongue when I say: "Well, I... I mean, I'm not... I'm no longer... suitable... either..."

                My voice fades as Gilbert's eyes widen incredulously. He glances between Francis and I, silvery head going back-and-forth like a pendulum before he barks in laughter. "Oh, gods!" he howls, piecing together our coy smiles and blushing faces to form a picture. "Did you two really—? _You did_!" His voice dissolves in laughter.

                I'm livid in embarrassment (why am I friends with these people?), but Francis—shallow sod—merely rolls his eyes. In fact, he looks smug.

                "What?" Antonio ponders, confused. "What did you do?" he asks us.

                Gilbert wipes a pearly tear from his eye and answers the query before either of us can. "Franny and Art cured themselves—I mean, _each other_ —of the god's curse."

                "Cured?"

                "The cure for virginity, Toni."

                I can see the moment it hits Antonio, because his green eyes alight with understanding. An impish grin curls his lips, and I mentally prepare myself for a joke or jest, but Antonio's joyful epiphany is not directed at me. Or any of us. Without a goodbye, he takes off jogging down the street, like a boy renewed of hope. At the tallest, richest house in the village, he stops, and we can all hear him yelling happily:

                "Lovi, come down here! Hurry! I know the cure!"

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For those of you who enjoy Fantasy AUs and the "virgin sacrifice" trope, I'm happy to recommend _Sacrifice_ by Crowsnight66. It's a truly beautiful one-shot about deepest love and friendship, and definitely worth the read. Cheers!


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